


Subtle

by Anonymous



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Incest, M/M, Nikandros goes to Vere and gets bamboozled by blonds, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 09:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21426118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Nikandros isn’t a fool, and the crown prince of Vere isn’t subtle.
Relationships: Auguste/Laurent (Captive Prince), Auguste/Laurent/Nikandros (Captive Prince), Auguste/Nikandros (Captive Prince), Laurent/Nikandros (Captive Prince)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 86
Collections: Anonymous





	Subtle

Nikandros isn’t a fool, and the crown prince of Vere isn’t subtle. 

Ever since he had arrived in the Veretian capital the man had been lapping at his heels, eager to show him around his home and extol him with pleasant chatter that, if he’s honest, Nikandros had half expected to be layered with a dozen subtle Veretian barbs. However, despite the less than respectable reputation of his kin, and the frankly alarming wit and barb of the crown prince’s younger brother who had seemed intent to trail them the entire day, Auguste has seemed genuine. Deeply so.

If his gaze is just a little too intense, his stare lingering just moments too long, if he reaches out in seeming friendliness with embraces that are just a little too intimate, well, Nikandros is not sure what he could do to address it. He may be accustomed to the presence of royalty, but he has never been the subject of their interest, nor their advances. 

He is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It is not as though it is a hardship to linger in the golden prince of Vere’s company, nor engage him in conversation. Auguste is intelligent and handsome, almost devastatingly so; tall, broad, a clear swordsman by his physique. He is shockingly blond, a colouring Nikandros has never seen in Akielos, his long locks tied in a tail that runs down the tightly laced blue jacket that seems to barely contain him. His features embody an almost golden warmth, as bright as the sun when he smiles, when the whole world can’t seem but help to watch him. 

He looks like a king, Nikandros thinks. It is difficult not to love him, Veretian or no.

Laurent, the younger prince, is another matter. He has the kind of grace, beauty and delicacy that could make men weep. He is blonder than his brother, his hair an almost yellowed white, which he deigns to wear loose and brushed smooth. He is slighter, clearly not the sportsman of the two, but makes up for his lack of physical prowess with a wit and intelligence that he shamelessly enjoys using at the expense of others. It seems to amuse his elder brother, who smiles fondly over his shoulder when Laurent says something in his lyrical language that Nikandros is sure has insulted him at least a dozen times over. 

Nikandros wonders at the dynamic between them. It seems easy, casual, despite the divide of their ages. Used to the almost bitter rivalry of Kastor and the clueless adoration of Damen, Nikandros is not used to seeing a dynamic between royal brothers that could be described as effortlessly loving. But, indeed, as though to evidence this, when Laurent makes some presumably snide comment about Akielon fashion, Auguste laughs and pulls his brother close, tucking him neatly under his arm and ruffling his hair affectionately, like it is second nature to do so. Nikandros half expects Laurent to turn about and slap him for the insult upon his person but, though Laurent does push away with an irritated sound, Nikandros thinks it’s more for his own benefit than anything else, when Laurent’s gaze flickers suspiciously towards him. 

Nikandros wonders if, in privacy, away from the airs of aloof snideness Laurent cloaks himself in, he would not enjoy his brother’s embrace. Perhaps things are different, perhaps brother’s closer, in such a place as Vere.

It’s an interesting thought, one that Nikandros doesn’t linger on. It seems inappropriate. He is not in Vere to scrutinise the closeness of the royal family, he’s here to secure trade agreements and improve their diplomatic relations. Damen himself had tasked Nikandros with this. He would not fail him.

On the thought of Damianos, Nikandros shudders. Having met these two golden, angelic princes, he is loathe to think of the scandal that might ensue should Damen himself ever come to meet them. Nikandros will endeavour to delay that moment as long as possible, for the sake of Akielos. 

After a leisurely day of exploration and easy chatter, in which Nikandros thinks some progress has been made towards the improvement of the relations between their countries, Auguste and Laurent escort him to the lavishly decorated hall where a feast is to be held in honour of his visit. Nikandros is seated beside Auguste in a position of honour at the garrish table laden with fineries far beyond Nikandros’ expectation or experience. In deference to his title as Kyros, Laurent, who would usually occupy the seat, is moved a little further down the table beside him. 

Nikandros is briefly worried the younger prince will resent him for it. He shudders to think what Kastor would do in a similar situation, moved aside for a man of lesser rank. Laurent, however, hardly seems bothered, and takes his seat beside Nikandros in an elegant folding of limbs and a slump that could only be described as arrogant. 

Course after course is laid out before them, food all strange and exotic to Nikandros, but nonetheless delicious. The quality of the meal is helped by the never ending flow of wine, and over the course of the evening his cup is never left empty for a moment. Nikandros partakes of a bit too much, he thinks when he feels his cheeks start to warm, but he can hardly be blamed. The finest Veretian vintages are renowned even in Ios, and the Veretian’s seem to spare no expense for him.

Aside from brief conversation Nikandros shares with the Veretian king early into the evening, as is courteous, it is Auguste who engages him in conversation over the course of nearly the whole dinner. Though his father occasionally comments towards him on some conversation he is carrying with his councillors, Auguste only ever politely responds, and seems uninterested in pursuing it further. It appears he’d much rather hear Nikandros talk of Akielon wrestling, question him about the technique, the history, the most famous bouts and competitors whose names are lauded amongst legend in Akielos. He’d much rather talk about war, battle, share the histories of Vere’s most famous warriors in return for tales of Akielos’. 

It is the kind of conversation Damianos would greatly enjoy, Nikandros thinks. 

The more he drinks, the more addled his thoughts become, the longer Nikandros lets himself look. When Auguste talks he is passionate, gesticulating with hands laden with ornate rings, his sincerity evident in every movement. His face is flushed with wine, his cheeks taking on a rosy hue that brightens his face spectacularly. He is like a debauched angel, Nikandros thinks. The thought makes his mind wander, picturing what other debaucheries would suit Auguste in a state like this.

It takes Laurent’s crisp voice, cutting through his thoughts like a dagger, to make Nikandros shake them. That they are beyond inappropriate, and perhaps courting the disaster of this trip, doesn’t immediately occur to him. 

Laurent says something flippant about wrestling, probably a snide comment about the need for nudity. Nikandros forces his eyes away from Auguste, turning instead to look at his brother. 

Laurent isn’t much like the jealous, vicious younger brother Nikandros had been warned to expect. His adoration of his older brother is painstakingly obvious; he seems to gravitate around him like Auguste is the sun. It is hard to see such pure and sincere love coming from a man like Laurent and accuse him of contemptuousness. He is courteous to a fault, even when Nikandros knows his words are duplicitous, and, as the evening wears on, Nikandros might almost describe him as polite. Certainly, the way his sprawl gradually gravitates towards Nikandros and his brother seems attentive, the way his elegant fingers cradle his chin, as he seems to absently listen to their conversation betrays a certain interest. 

Nikandros might not be the cleverest, nor the keenest observer, but he would almost hazard to think the way the younger prince’s eyes linger on him is with an interest almost… calculating. What machinations are occurring behind those vivid blue eyes Nikandros doesn’t dare to think.

Sat between the two of them, the evening passes pleasantly. More pleasantly than Nikandros had dared to hope when he had arrived here, in Vere. 

The noise and rowdiness of the room becomes more uninhibited as the feast draws to a close. Though Nikandros averts his gaze, and he is sure the courtiers have somewhat restrained themselves for his benefit, he is not blind to the way that Veretian pets begin to drift closer to their master’s laps, some draping themselves over shoulders and over thighs, presenting themselves like slaves for perusal. The noises that drift up to the high table are… explicit, to say the least.

Nikandros has seen such things before, though he thinks Akielos’ slaves carry themselves with more dignity and grace. Still, the sight of handsome young men climbing into the laps of their masters, or prettily costumed girls licking into the mouths of their mistresses brazenly, makes something in Nikandros stir. Vere is not without its charms, he thinks, despite the gaudiness of it.

Nikandros is drinking deeply of his wine, Auguste’s voice warm in his ear as he talks of the Veretian sport of hunting, when a procession begins to make its way into the room. A handful of pets dressed in gauzy silk, dripping jewels and precious gems from delicate looking chains that cross their bodies in intricate, sensuous lines, parade in a circle around the hall, fetching baudy jeers and appreciative stares from the drunken courtiers. They come to a standstill before the King’s table, bowing deeply to those seated there.

Nikandros looks sideways at Auguste, eyebrow raised in question. Auguste smirks, leaning towards him to whisper in his ear, as anticipation seems to descend upon the hall, bringing with it a hushed silence.

“These are the finest performers amongst the pets at our court,” Auguste explains to him in low tones. “They are going to dance for you.”

“For me?”

Beside him, Laurent scoffs. “For you. For Auguste. For their king. Even for me. Whoever’s favour is the most attainable.”

Nikandros frowns, puzzled. Slaves in Akielos perform for their masters, for the simple joy of performance, and for the reward of appreciation. These pets dance for compensation. The act seems hollow, when he knows it is only a farce. 

Auguste laughs beside him, seeing his expression. “Don’t mind Laurent. I’m sure you will enjoy their talents well enough.”

Nikandros inclines his head sagely. For the sake of diplomacy, he will do his best to appear appreciative. 

The dance could hardly be described as such. It is more sex in fluid, perfect form; a carnal, base act performed between the men on stage for every man and woman in the hall to witness. The gentle clink of the chains as bodies meet, gyrating in pulses with the heavy beat of the drum, is hypnotic, Nikandros thinks. The way they writhe, loose limbed and as limber as the most exquisitely trained palace slaves, is sex personified.

He watches Auguste watch the performance, out of the corner of his eye. The crown prince is leaning forward in his seat, eyes fixed on the performers with an almost startling intensity. He licks his lips, his hand flexes on his thigh. Nikandros looks down, shamelessly, boldly, and sees what he knows he shouldn’t.

He feels Laurent’s gaze on him. But when he turns to see the second son, Laurent’s eyes are not fixed on him. It is his brother who holds his gaze, fills it, as though he is the only thing in the world worth looking at. Laurent’s cheeks are flushed, and though a treasonous thought fills his head and is even more quickly banished, Nikandros thinks it is with more than just the wine. The performers seem to hold no interest to him.

The performance ends, and not a moment too soon, Nikandros thinks. Though he had opted for a cloak in the cooler Veretian weather, he had not deigned to wear trousers, and there is little in his lap the fabric of a chiton can hide. He subtly adjusts his seat, hoping Auguste and Laurent don’t notice.

Laurent excuses himself not soon after, tipping back the last of his wine and rising from him seat steadily. Auguste makes to rise after him, but Laurent gestures him to sit.

“It’s been a long day. I think I shall retire.” 

With a nod, his king gives him leave, and Laurent makes to go. He throws over his shoulder a parting word for Nikandros. 

“It was a pleasure, brute.”

Auguste chuckles, patting Nikandros fondly on the arm. “Don’t mind him,” he says. “Laurent never seems to grasp when to restrain his wit.”

His hand lingers, long after Laurent has gone.

“I do not mind,” Nikandros says, and finds he doesn’t.

Though they are in a somewhat busy hall Nikandros almost feels that they are alone, in a private world with their heads bowed together in steady conversation that drifts aimlessly and easily from topic to topic. He closes his eyes as he listens to Auguste’s lyrical talk, enjoying a cool breeze blowing across his wine warmed cheeks from the open window.

He startles, when he feels a hand close around his. 

“Come, brother of Akielos,” Auguste says, rising from his chair. “I’ll escort you to your chambers.”

Blinking his eyes open, pushing himself too hurriedly to his feet, Nikandros says, “Your highness you needn’t--”

“Of course I must,” Auguste says. “I would enjoy the walk with you, if you would like--”

“Yes,” Nikandros says. He blames the wine for his boldness. “I would.”

They make it out of the hall and down the corridor, finding it blessedly deserted and quiet, before Auguste suddenly stops. Nikandros skids to a halt as well, almost knocked off balance, almost startled to remember Auguste’s hand is still in his.

“Forgive me,” Auguste says.

That is all the warning Nikandros gets before he is pushed towards the cool, stone wall, and Auguste is upon him. 


End file.
